


Promptober 2019

by Rexicorn



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins, Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, It Lives (Visual Novels), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Battle, Developing Relationship, Drabbles, First Love, Fluff, Flufftober, Friends to Lovers, Ghouls, Gore, Goretober, Hypothermia, Kink, Kinktober 2019, Mages (Dragon Age), Masturbation, Multi, October Prompt Challenge, POV Sirius Black, Sex Work, Sexual Fantasy, Shower Sex, Surprise Kissing, Templars (Dragon Age), Uniform Kink, Whump, Whumptober, iRex, lap dance, prompts, writing challenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rexicorn/pseuds/Rexicorn
Summary: I couldn't decide what prompts to follow during October, so I mixed up Whump, Fluff, Kink and Gore, added some fandoms and characters and...let the dice decide for me! I'll update tags as I write and post, and you can check the contents of this fic below, which will update as I post as well. Feedback would be lovely, especially as I'm pushing myself out of my comfort zone for certain things (*cough* kink *cough*) but mostly I hope these little drabbles are just fun for me and anyone who reads them!The rules: I rolled a d4 to choose between my 4 prompts, a d6 to choose the fandom, a d8 to choose the main character POV and a d20 to choose the specific prompt (aka the chapter title!)1 Cooking : Fluff/Fallout/Piper2 Friendly Fire: Whump/Dragon Age/Aeducan3 Friends to Lovers: Fluff/Dragon Age/Cousland4 Shower Sex: Kink/Marvel/Valkyrie5 Bruises: Whump/It Lives Beneath/Harper Vance6 Uniform: Kink/Dragon Age/Amell7 Hypothermia: Whump/Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows/Hermione8 Masturbation: Kink/Dragon Age/Alistair9 Second Kiss: Fluff/Fallout/John Hancock10 Promise: Fluff/Marvel/Carol Danvers11 Lap Dance: Kink/Marauders/Sirius Black





	1. Cooking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff/Fallout 4/Piper Wright

The radio transitioned from a soft and gentle melody into something much more upbeat and Piper found her hips responding to the tempo. She stood at the counter, knife in one hand and reached for a carrot in the pail, tapping her heel lightly against the floor. Any moment now she’d start humming. It was sickening.

The door creaked open, the later afternoon sun casting a glow around Nora as if she had just stepped out of the Glowing Sea. If Piper had a Geiger counter to hand she had no doubt it would be beeping wildly. As it was, her heart acted in it’s stead, thumping faster as Nora edged into the room, letting the door shut with a clatter behind her. She swiped the back of her hand across her sweaty forehead, leaving a streak of something that could have been either dirt or ashes. Maybe a mixture of both.

Piper smiled automatically as Nora stepped closer, pulling her backpack off and dumping it by the door. “Hey Blue. You’re late.”

“You have no way of measuring that,” Nora replied, unbuckling her belt and sliding it off, the gun holster swaying as she placed it on the chair beside her. “That clock hasn’t worked since the bomb went off.”

“Ah, but what have we used since then?” Piper asked, the knife slicing cleaning through the carrot, cutting it into pale orange discs. “And in fact, since we began measuring time? I think it might be the sun, which is heading over the hills behind you as we speak. That means you’re late.” She grabbed for one more carrot and starting dicing.

“Jeez, sorry _mom_,” Nora rolled her eyes, but when she drew alongside Piper she dropped a kiss to her temple, the move at odds with her dry clap-back. Piper leaned into her lips for a moment, then pulled back, nose scrunched.

“Ach, you’re filthy!”

Nora held up both hands a wicked gleam in her eye as she waggled her fingers. Piper shook her head, unable to stop the giggle that flew from her lips. “Stop it, Blue, I mean it!” She flinched back, shoulder coming up to guard against the dirty fingers of Nora Fraser. Nora’s wriggling digits waved by Piper’s face, laughter ringing out between the two, before Nora pulled back. She gave her hands a sniff.

“Yeah, you don’t want this stuff all over you.” Nora headed around Piper to the stove.

“What even is…?”

“Bit of dirt, some Brahmin dung and perhaps a morsel of molerat blood.” Nora shrugged, her back flexing with the movement. “The usual.” She leaned over the pot on top of the stove and inhaled. “Mmm, what’s cookin’, good lookin’?”

Piper felt her cheeks pink at the line. She finished with the final carrot and picked up the board, moving to the pot and using the knife to slide the chunks into the bubbling pot. She could smell her food, but it was mingling with the unpleasant odour of everything Nora had trekked inside the house. “You need to go get washed up. Dinner will be ready soon.”

“Carrot stew?” Nora asked. She was taller than Piper and looked down with her clear blue eyes, never making Piper feel diminutive, not when she commanded Nora’s attention. The heat in her cheeks flared further. God damn it, would she ever get used to that woman?

“You’ll have to see,” Piper said after a moment. “Go get clean.”

Nora laughed and walked through the house towards the back. Piper heard some muffled clanging and a curse under her breath, before the sound of running water drowned her out. Piper grabbed an oven mitt and opened the metal door to the oven, checking the meat was still cooking happily inside. She reached for a two-pronged fork and turned the roast, releasing a new wave of scent. Her stomach rumbled. It was going to be a good dinner.

Nora re-emerged after a short while, with damp hair and a new outfit. A pair of worn jeans and a flannel shirt over a threadbare t-shirt. Nothing overly fancy, but to Piper, it was a joy to see. Not her road leathers wrapped in modified armour, no helmet, no guns slung over her. This was Nora as Piper loved her best; homely, comfortable. At peace, or as near as the woman out of time was ever going to get. Piper watched her head for the cooler and reach for a beer, cracking the top and drinking deep. She wondered, not for the first time, what Nora had been like before the bombs, before the Vault, before waking up into a future she didn’t recognise. How had she and Nate spent their evenings?

Nora came over with her beer and with a graceful turn, she leapt up to land with her backseat on the kitchen counter, never once spilling her beer. Piper sighed, but she was smiling and Nora winked, taking another sip.

“Pass me those herbs, would you?” Piper asked with a nod behind Nora. She reached over and tugged the dried bunch of tiny leaves on stalks loose from their tie and handed two sprigs to Piper. Piper expertly picked the leaves off the stalk into a mortar, adding a few flakes of spice and then began to grind them up with the pestle. Noras denim-clad thigh rested on the counter beside her. “Good day?”

Nora nodded. “Not bad. We got the fence fixed where that Yao Guai had busted it. And I got the defence systems back online.” She smiled at the thought. “I knew hoarding those circuit boards would come in handy.”

“That’s great,” Piper nodded, setting the mortar and pestle aside and reaching for a net bag of taters. “I might need more space here, Blue.”

Nora slid off the counter. “What can I do to help?”

“You can grab me one of those.” Piper raised her eyebrow at the half empty bottle in Nora’s hand. She complied, bringing a cold beer back for the chef. Piper was chopping the taters into rough chunks. “And a baking tray, please.”

Nora complied, grabbing a dish down from the shelf above the counter and placing it next to Piper, who tipped the taters into the dish, drizzled oil over them, then coated them in her mix of herbs and spices. “What’s the occasion?”

Piper coloured again. “Nothing,” she said. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, Blue.” She shifted the dish, making the taters slide around, turning them in the mix of oil and flavour. Then she bent to put the dish in the oven, below the Yao Guai roast. When she rose again and turned, Nora was right there. Piper leaned back against the counter, one of Nora’s hands, the one holding the beer, resting beside her on the wooden structure, the other brushing Pipers hair off her shoulder and cupping her cheek with grace.

“Coming home to you is always something nice, Piper Wright,” Nora murmured, her breath warming the flush on Piper’s neck as she drew closer. Pipers hands went to Nora’s waist and as the radio began to play a new song, Noras kiss set Piper’s world on fire, while the dinner simmered patiently beside them.


	2. Friendly Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump/Dragon Age/Aeducan

“Stone take you!” It was an utterance that was more growl than cry as the darkspawn’s head cleaved in two; Clay Aeducans axe thunking into it’s skull. He laughed as the beast expired before him, yanking his axe free and swinging for the next foe stupid enough to take on the middle son of King Endrin. His blood roared with the fervour of battle, and his throat echoed the sound though it was lost among the clanging of metal and the battle cries all around him.

The city was deserted of its civilians for the most part and the dwarf was fighting beneath a blanket of starlight. The square was lit up with firelight, the surface dwellers ridiculously having chosen to make the majority of their lodgings out of wood and straw. Stone didn’t burn and stone was where Clay drew his strength. At least the ground beneath his boots was carved slabs.

As the last wave abated, a fresh stream of enemies advanced, weaving through the streets towards the dwarves Clay commanded. He grimaced and readied his axe.

Danel leapt down beside him, readying his crossbow. “Nice night for a brawl, eh?”

Clay couldn’t help but laugh. “Promise me our next date will be somewhere more relaxing?”

Danel winked, sliding the bolt into the shaft and nocking it. “I’ll take you wherever you wish to go, my prince.”

Clay wanted to reach over and squeeze the arm of his beloved, but the horde would be upon them in moments. Danel hefted the crossbow, aimed and fired, the bolt zipping through the night sky in an instant, burying it in the neck of the Hurlock leading the charge. Clay exclaimed in delight, but directed him: “Nice shot, now back up and cover us.”

Danel didn’t wait to respond, and Clay stepped forward to meet the swinging sword of a genlock, trusting his partner to do as instructed, even though following instructions had never been either of their strong suits. His axe parried the blow with ease and Clay growled in the face of his target as he shoved it backwards, creating enough distance to slash the creatures neck. Blood sprayed thickly, black and viscous, but Clay spun to meet the next set of blades.

Then again and again and again.

What would become known as the Battle of Denerim raged on, relentlessly, but they held their position. A massive dragon flew overhead with a sound that was somewhere between a roar and a shriek, lightning and thunder in one. The stars were gone for a moment as it passed over, it’s enormous shadow plunging Clay briefly into a deeper night. He stole a glance upwards, catching sight of the vast belly of the beast, the huge clawed feet and the dangerously long and pointed tail. He was glad it was not him racing to meet the beast and equally proud to stand as a line of defence to keep the ground forces at bay. The Grey Wardens had to make it to their own battle.

There was another short reprieve as they slaughtered the final darkspawn, a moment to breathe and run a quick tally of the wounded, the dying and the dead. Danel appeared at his side, and this time Clay grasped his hand in a quick squeeze to convey everything the dwarf meant to him. Danel clutched back just as fiercely.

Their numbers were good; picked at, but still strong. Healers swept in, a mixture of dwarves with salves, potions and bandages, as well as humans and elves with magic at their fingertips. Clay directed the wounded off the field of battle just as a horn sounded. Turning his heart dropped as a new villain entered the fray.

A hulking great giant of an ogre slowly stomped at the head of the next wave of foes, it’s lumbering arms hanging down almost to the ground, it’s hands curled into fists, each massive finger ending in a jagged nail.

“By the ancestors,” Clay muttered, before steeling himself and lifting his great axe. “For Orzammar!” The cry was met with an answering chorus. “For the Grey Wardens! For Ferelden!”

With yells and bellows, the dwarves readied themselves. “Archers, on my signal!” He called, hesitating only a moment to await the perfect shot. “Now!”

Danel was surely among the archers who fired their bolts though Clay didn’t take his eyes off the approaching enemies. Like targeted rain, the sky was suddenly filled with the quickness of the bolts, and Clay watched them find their way towards their foes. Many of the bolts sank into the chest and face of the ogre, which paused and bellowed, some of its comrades stumbling to the ground as their blood spewed from bolt holes. The ogre yelled and then burst into a sudden run, dashing to the line of dwarves, swinging its fists and striking targets, many of whom were dwarves Clay had known for decades. He hissed and lifted his axe, sidestepping the ogres' feet and burying his axe in the calf of the best. It bit the flesh and he leaned hard on his axe, sinking it in further, his adrenaline fuelled by the scream of pain from the ogre.

The thing toppled as yet more dwarves took up the charge, hacking away at the creature, which sliced its hands through the air with no sense of aim, driven by mindless pain and panic. Clay pushed his axe further in until he felt the sickening scrape of bone, then was forced to abandon his axe as a Hurlock bore down upon him. Darting aside, bereft of his weapon, he thought this would be the end of him until a bolt took the Hurlock right through the eye. He grinned darkly and glanced up to see Danel with his sights aiming for the next darkspawn that dared approach Clay Aeducan.

“What did I do to deserve you?” Clay called as he leapt towards the ogre to try to haul his axe free, bolts singing through the air around him, not allowing a single foe to get within five feet of him.

“Something bad,” Danel called back, reloading and firing with practised precision.

Clay dodged a strike by a genlock and gripped the haft of his axe, bracing himself to tug. This wave, despite its terrifying approach, was already dying down and Clay focused all his attention on the axe.

He heard the shout of the approaching beast, felt the hot breath on his neck, and reacted. He flinched to the left, away from the snarling jaws and then felt a bite unlike what he had been expecting. Pain blossomed from a point at his neck, high on his left side, above the protection of his pauldrons. Blood thundered in his ear as the pain grew vines that spread down his arm, across his back and crawled over his face. He realised he had let go of the axe and a moment later he hit the ground. Sound was fuzzy, the noise of his clamouring blood drowning out everything else. He could hear his name from a distance.

Feet appeared before him and someone was screaming over and over; hands gripped him and pulled him onto something hard and soft all at once. Clays eyes were shut. He wrenched them open, the stars blotchy like running paint. A face swam into view and it took many blinks to force it into focus. Danel, he was yelling. Something warm and wet splashed onto Clay's face. Danels hand—he thought it was Danels hand—was pressed against his neck where the agony was originating from. The sky darkened again, was that the dragon? The Grey Wardens had their work cut out for them. He had to hold the square, that was his duty. Clay imagined he was getting to his feet, rallying the fighters, but he realised his legs were numb.

“—ld on! Clay—” Danel wasn’t talking to him the whole time. Sometimes his eyes bored into Clays, sometimes he looked away. “Healer!”

A woman sank to her knees beside Clay. She leaned close and he could see her pointed ears, the concern in her dark eyes. Her warm hand touched his neck oh so gently, green energy sparking. As she began to pour that energy into the weakening Aeducan prince, he felt Danel hug him closer.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please… please just live…”

Clay wanted to tell him it was alright and he would do his best, but he was so cold and so tired and he just couldn’t find the words.


	3. Friends to Lovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff/Dragon Age/Cousland

The friendship between Thea Cousland and Roderick Gilmore was one of action, but looking back, Thea gave greater weight to the words that had passed between them.

_“I bruise really easily.”_

When they’d first met Roderick Gilmore was a skinny thirteen-year-old lad who barely looked like he could hold a sword, never mind wield it.

Thea was full of pent up rage being a twelve-year-old girl separated for three years from her twin sister Phoebe, who had not heard from her since being taken to the Circle of Magi, who had written countless letters to no response, and was in dire need of an outlet for this fury. Her long suffering older brother had been forced to endure sparring sessions with her as there were none close enough in age to her to practise with her, until Roderick was promoted from page to squire. Fergus quickly palmed his sister off onto the red-headed boy with a snide “good luck” and didn’t look back.

Though she was an archer at heart, Thea responded well to the prospect of taking her anger out on this boy who wasn’t allowed to refuse her wishes to spar and in fact was tasked with learning all he could about the art of fighting and he rose to the challenge, even if Thea's style was less artful, more scrappy. She fought dirty, driven by her desire to win, she aimed for the most painful points on her opponent's body and she didn’t hold back.

He was right; he did bruise easily.

_“Hey, you’re bleeding.”_

It took a while before Roderick dared himself to quit holding back. Several weeks had passed before he outsmarted her movements, practically pirouetting on the ball of his foot and driving the flat of the practice sword against her arm. Thea had still beaten him; the shock of making contact had frozen Roderick allowing Thea all the time in the world to kick his skin, downing him and smacking him upside the head with her own wooden blade, but the damage had been done. Roderick pointed to her arm where a thin red trail was winding its way towards her elbow. Frozen in new terror now Roderick watched her bend her arm and peer at the blood, grey eyes inscrutable.

Then she’d turned back to him and broken into the first smile he’d seen since he’d met her, reaching down and offering him a hand up. That was the moment they had become friends.

_“I’m sorry it happened because of what it cost you.”_

Thea was fourteen. She and Roderick had taken the afternoon off to go riding in the grounds around Highever Castle and they were letting the ponies graze while they dipped their bare feet into the river that ran all the way north to the Storm Coast. It was peaceful for once, the weather and the pair, sitting quietly, no flurries of blows or swords whistling through the air. Thea had brought her bow, but it remained on her saddle, the quiver still full of undrawn arrows. It was a moment of reflection in the most obvious of ways, the clear water becoming the thing she avoided at all cost; a mirror. In the water, Thea could see her face rippling, the scar that marred the left side of her face, drawing her and mouth down on one side, her white hair tugged back into a ponytail. She thought of her sisters face, how the twins no longer looked the same. The Incident that had scarred her looks was five years past this Justinian, which meant five years since she had looked upon Phoebe at all. Her shadow, her twin, her one time mirror image.

The plan for Thea's life had been shunted violently aside on that fateful day, which in itself was no bad thing—she hadn’t cared for her parents' plans for her—but it had cost her Phoebe. She hadn’t spoken of the Incident to anyone, but today in this space of solitude with Roderick she had told him about the fact that if it hadn't happened she would have been introduced at court in Denerim this season. And he had uttered those words, that he understood the mixture of relief to be no longer on a path towards prince Cailan and marriage to him, but sorrow of the cost.

Thea turned to look at him, the question evident in her narrow grey eyes, almost afraid to ask what he meant by that because he surely wouldn’t be so astute as to see the truth, but Roderick had looked back his eyes solemn and honest and added: “Your sister.”

_“That one’s yours.”_

It was her birthday. Her fifteenth year. That morning she had cut off the majority of her hair and made her mother cry. She had found letters in her fathers' study, letters she had written to Phoebe and he’d promised he’d sent them.

It was Phoebes birthday, too. Thea wondered whether birthdays were celebrated in the Circle and whether Phoebe was as miserable as she was.

A Bann she’d never heard of from down south had written to her parents to discuss a marriage alliance. Thea had heard her parents talking about it; the incandescent rage from her father at the offer being so low for their noble house. The marriage of his only eligible daughter to the fifth son of tiny Bannorn. He was outraged. Her mother had placated him, soothed him with the truth: that might be the best offer they could hope for.

Theas white locks had left a trail through her room and Eleanor had found her just as she sliced the final strands with her dagger.

Roderick had found Thea in the kitchen, hiding from her parents, Nan enabling her hiding place. He knew it was bad if Nan was being that sympathetic and had snuck Thea through the passageway he’d found earlier that year to the kennels. There he had revealed his bounty, a little of mabari pups freshly whelped just before he’d found the passage. Many of the pups were already destined as gifts for sons of Arls, who were being hosted at Thea's birthday feast, but Roderick gently lifted the runt of the litter and set him into Thea's arms. He licked her tears and she buried her face into his short brown fur, immediately in love.

Nobody could come between an imprinted mabari and his mistress, not even the Teyrn of Highever himself.

_“Thea… you _are_ beautiful.”_

Captain Beauregard snored softly in his sleep in the sunshine as Thea lined up the shot. She released her breath and the arrow in the same moment, the projectile taken mere moments in flight before it sank into the bread dangling from a length of string in the tree. Meant for the birds, the stale end of the loaf broke in two and fell to the ground. Thea was already nocking her next arrow.

When her quiver was spent, she turned to clapping and smiled warmly. It was always good to see Roderick, even if their sparring sessions had been sharply curtailed of late. It wasn’t deemed proper for Thea at sixteen to be getting rough and tumble with the lad, a year her senior, who had filled out over the past few months into a broad shouldered, knight-to-be. A least her father didn’t think it seemed appropriate. Her mother was surprisingly more relaxed about the whole thing, claiming it was just good to see some joy in her daughters face.

Thea had snooped in Bryce’ study again and found the address for the Circle. Kinloch Hold it was called and with Rodericks help Thea had written again, a long letter, filled with explanations for her lack of contact, trying to cram seven years worth of her life into three scrolls of parchment. It was Roderick who had secreted the missives out of the castle and couriered them to the Circle. Thea was certain these letters had made it, and held a tiny flicker of hope that Phoebe might find a way to reply, though as yet it hadn’t happened.

The letters that had come, which Thea had found and stolen from the Teyrn of Couslands desk, she thrust towards Roderick now. Captain woke up and began snuffling around for the bread on the ground as Roderick read, his face falling. Letters from suitors, equally as lowly as the Bann who’d angered her father with his proposal over a year ago.

Thea knew the truth and elucidated it for Roderick: her future held a husband and he would be disappointed in his bride. She’d once been paraded before the king as an offering to his son, and though she hadn’t wanted it, her ugly face and hair had lowered her stock considerably. It brought shame to her parents and the thought of being married to someone she didn’t know, didn’t love and who would find her so unappealing settled like acid in her stomach. She shrugged ruefully and bemoaned her lack of beauty, but Roderick had insisted otherwise and then to her great surprise had touched his lips to the corner of her mouth, the left side, the side where her skin was taut and whorled.

Then they’d used the letters for target practice.

_“Thea…?”_

_“Ro, will you please stay?”_

_“I don’t… I don’t want to get caught.”_

_“Captain will stand guard. We’ll be quiet.”_

_“…Thea…”_

_“Please? I want… I want to feel you. All of you.”_

_“You can’t say things like that.”_

_“But it’s the truth.”_

_“Are… are you sure?”_

_“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”_

_“Maker, Thea… I need you to know… that is, this isn’t some… this means something. There’s never been any other girl for me and I…”_

_“I know.”_

_“I love you, Thea.”_

_“And I love you, Ro.”_


	4. Shower Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kink/Marvel/Valkyrie

“Nice horse,” the woman had said. It was only later that Valkyrie learned that she was called Carol Danvers, but in fairness there were a hell of a lot of people there and names and faces all blurred into one emotional mess after the battle. The battle that ended with the death of someone Valkyrie understood to be a great loss, but not something she felt personally. Thor was cut up about it. There were tears. It was understandable; Valkyrie had lost enough to know that pain.

“Not a horse,” had been her stellar response, the quip delivered with a smirk to the woman in red, blue and gold walking past as Valkyrie’s mount nuzzled into her shoulder. It wasn’t meant to be all that funny or clever; after all the wings were large and obvious and even humans knew what a Pegasus was, but when Valkyrie tilted her head to glance at the woman, the woman-who-would-be-known-as-Carol, she smiled. The realisation that this was the one who’d taken out the entire battleship on her own struck at the same time as that smile and it would have been hard to tell which sensation hit Valkyrie harder. The crooked swerve of Carol's lips, the hint of teeth and the shine in her eyes. Valkyrie was momentarily lost for words.

Thor had been the one to fill in the gaps. He had met Carol Danvers back when Valkyrie was still counting heads and making sure each of the Asgardian survivors of their first brush with Thanos all had a roof over their head and food on their tables. It was before Thor had broken down, every lost soul weighing so heavily on him. Having a project, a team and a goal had started to restore him, but it was the restoration of the dusted that revived him. Before he had crowned her king of Asgard and headed off with his new group of galaxy exploring folk, he had told Valkyrie what he knew of Carol Danvers:

“She’s very strong. Very, very strong. Like, stronger even than me, probably. I’m not sure, we haven’t tested it, but even for a human, she’s incredibly strong. Oh, and she can fly. In space, which is pretty cool, and then she can glow and shoot glowing powers out of her hands. I heard someone say that they saw her face Thanos alone on the battlefield and he couldn’t get her off him. Oh, and her name is Carol.”

A smooth wing-man he was not, but he had covered the basics. After he left earth again Valkyrie had thrown herself into her role as king. It was not unlike their first days on earth, settling into New Asgard, especially as they had some more mouths to feed. The Snap had not spared the Asgardians after their previous decimation at the hands of Hela, but if there was one thing they had learned since the destruction of their realm, their doomed spaceflight and the Snap, it was how to make the best of a situation. Valkyrie saw to it that everyone was content and for the next few weeks life became a new version of normal and she found she enjoyed the relatively mundane aspects of ruling New Asgard.

The woman known as Carol flitted through her mind every now and again. It seemed silly to fixate on someone she had exchanged five words with, but Valkyrie didn’t dwell, enjoying the brief thoughts as a way to brighten a dull moment. They didn’t have a chance to interact until six months after the Battle at Avengers HQ.

Thor had been present at the private funeral for Tony Stark, but someone somewhere had decided in their wisdom to hold a thanksgiving memorial to all the heroes lost during the fight against Thanos, as well as for all the people who had died when the Snap occurred—those unfortunate souls who’s train driver was dusted, or who’s plane fell from the sky having suddenly lost the captain— and those who died in the five years before the world had been set right again who never got to see what Iron Man had died for. Thor was off-world so Valkyrie was the Asgardian representation.

The event would last several hours beginning with the memorial service to the fallen heroes, followed by dinner and dancing, the celebration of life and the world made right again. Valkyrie listened to the eulogies of Tony Stark and Natasha Romanov delivered by Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes and Clint Barton respectively. Valkyrie sent a private thought to Thor, who she knew missed his brother after he had been a direct victim of Thanos before the Snap. These were deaths they could not make better again. These deaths had stuck.

It was during the end of the dinner that Valkyrie thought of Carol Danvers again. Her mind wandered off to the same five words she always thought of and she smiled. Chin resting on her palm, her other hand slowly tracing the stem of her wine glass.

And then she blinked and the woman on her mind was right before her.

“Hey there,” Carol Danvers in real life said. “Did you bring the horse again?”

Valkyrie allowed herself a single second to freak out before coolly sitting up straight, dropping her hand into her lap. “Afraid not.” She replied, heart hammering, but maintaining her calm exterior. “She’s back home being spoiled rotten by the people of Asgard and—” she took a sip of her white wine, proud of herself for not letting the glass tremble— “she’s not a horse.”

Carol laughed, a giddy, loose sound that seemed to strip away most of the intimidating presence that surrounded her. Valkyrie smiled broadly and Carol slipped into the empty seat beside her. “I’m Carol.”

“I know.” Valkyrie cringed inwardly at the slip up. Carol gave her a quizzical look. “Thor told me all about everyone who made it to the battle. Your name came up after you, you know, took out a ship all on your own. I’m Valkyrie.”

“I know,” Carol smirked, causing Valkyrie to almost choke on her next sip of wine. “I asked around, too.” Carol cocked her head from side to side, stretching the tendons in her neck with a pop.“How long does this go on for do you think?”

“Not sure,” Valkyrie said. “I believe there is to be dancing later.”

Carol winced. Her eyes stole to the tall glass. “Not my scene. That your drink?”

“Certainly seems so.”

“You don’t strike me as a Chablis type.”

_Bold of her to assume_, but Valkyrie smirked. “It’s Sauvignon, actually. But no, it’s not my preferred booze.”

“What is?”

“Anything else.” Valkyrie snorted.

“You’re Asgardian, right?” Carol asked. “I’ve heard that Thor doesn’t get drunk. That true for all of you?”

Valkyrie cackled, aware too late just how obnoxious a sound it was. Carol didn’t seem to mind. “That is bullshit; he most certainly can get drunk and does,” Carol said nothing and Valkyrie realised she was waiting for the rest of the question to be answered. “I can get drunk, too, but it does take a lot and definitely stronger than this.”

Carol grinned. “I’m a beer girl myself. Don’t get much chance to grab a cold one when I’m off-world. You don’t feel like getting out of here for a bit, do you?” She looked down and Valkyrie was just thinking of a way to answer that she kind of would, but she really really ought to stay and be kingly and do the responsible thing by making sure the Asgardian presence was felt, but then Carol looked up locking eyes with her and Valkyrie opened her mouth and what fell out was the word: “sure.”

The bar they escaped to was dingy and loud and perfect. Carol ordered them a round of six beers between them and they sat in a corner of the room in their formal suits and laughed and talked. Carol dragged Valkyrie over to the pool table and after a few false starts the Asgardian picked up the game. After a while, the blazers came off and shirt sleeves were rolled up. Another round of six beers was ordered and drunk, achieving a mellow buzz for Valkyrie. Carol seemed more than able to keep up despite her human build. They moved onto darts and Carol was woman enough to know when she’d been beat.

Later on, they sat together again as the patrons in the bar thinned out.

Carol was growing out an undercut and complained about the lengthy process and without thinking, Valkyrie reached over and brushed her fingers through the fuzz beneath her wave of blonde hair. Even as she realised what she was doing, Carol closed her eyes and leaned into Valkyries palm, just for a moment or two. The world paused for that time, during which Valkyries breath stopped, heart, ceased beating. Everything narrowed down to Carol's head against her hand.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Valkyrie heard herself say.

“Yes,” Carol looked up, eyes sparkling, lip twitching into that crooked smile that had driven Valkyrie mad for months.

Things were gathered and out they went, spilling into the cold night. It was midnight as decreed by the neon digital clock sign bolted to the wall of a building they hurried past back to the hotel where the dancing part of the evening was winding down. They ignored the revellers and hurried upstairs. They didn’t discuss exactly where they were going, but at some point, Valkyrie felt Carol's hand slide into hers and she grasped it tight, determinedly leading the way to her room. She only paused at the threshold to her door, the key card slid into the lock with a green light. “Is this…?”

“Let’s go,” Carol grinned, reaching past Valkyrie to push open the door. Greenlight all around; Valkyrie laughed as they tumbled through. The heavy door swung shut once they were inside and suddenly Valkyrie could feel Carol's hands on her, her back against the door, beer drenched lips on hers. She gasped, opening her mouth and Carol’s tongue boldly swept inside. Valkyrie ran her hand over the fuzzy hair at Carol's scalp again, her other hand tilting Carol's head back to deepen the kiss. Carols hands were at her waist, fingertips deftly running back and forth along the hem of Valkyries shirt. Valkyries head swam, half afraid she might be dreaming after all, with the woman who had occupied her absent mind for half a year right here before her, holding her and kissing her, and she broke the kiss with a pant, chest rising sharply. Carol looked up with heavy lidded eyes, languorous as if they were waking up together, not starting something. Valkyrie smiled slowly, brushing the blonde hair off Carol's face. “You’re beautiful.”

“Right back atcha.” Carols hands found the skin beneath the shirt and Valkyrie couldn’t help the shiver that spread at her touch. Carol sniggered. “Ticklish?”

“Turned on.” Valkyrie amended honestly. Carol raised her eyebrow and grinned.

“You need a cold shower then,” Carol teased, skimming her fingers so tantalisingly over Valkyries belly. One finger slipped beneath the waistband of her trousers and Carol looked up at Valkyrie, biting her lip. Valkyrie almost growled as she shoved away from the door, capturing Carol's smart mouth with a hungry kiss, leading her backwards, hands grasping Carols face.

Slowly they walked with urgent kisses, towards the bathroom. Carol wanted a shower: that was what she was going to get.

The shower was large, big enough for her damn Pegasus; one oversized waterfall style head above the drain and Valkyrie wasn’t stopping. She kissed Carol and manoeuvred her beneath the head, one hand shooting out to spin the temperature dial and blasting the pair with chilled water. Carols brown eyes opened wide and she shrieked with laughter. Valkyrie couldn’t help but join in, even as she spun the handle to warm their shower. Carol raised her hands, palms up, letting the drops bounce off her.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” she laughed and Valkyrie threw back a proud smile. “I like it; it’s sexy.”

Valkyrie dove for another kiss, this time letting her hands explore. Her fingers began to trace Carol's body from her neck down over the swell of her breasts, towards the buttons on her shirt, tugging them loose. The water soaked the material, tightening it to Carol's body and with a few quick movements the shirt opened, revealing a devastatingly lacy camisole beneath. Valkyrie dropped her gaze to Carol's chest where her nipples were making their presence known. Valkyrie pulled at the shirt, the wet silk catching on Carols soaked skin, but finally yielding and dropping to the bottom of the shower. Valkyrie glanced up at Carol's face again, waiting for a sign to carry on. Carol flashed that smirk, the crooked smile that drove her wild and Valkyrie bent down towards the camisole. One of the straps was already slipping off Carol's shoulder and a gentle tug helped along by Carol shrugging it off, pulled the camisole down to her waist. Carols nipples were rosy, the colour Valkyrie imagined would rise in Carol's cheeks if she ever blushed and they sight of them peaking stirred her to opened her mouth and take one inside. Carols breath hitched, her hand clutching Valkyries head as she swirled her tongue around the bud. The water fell from the showerhead onto Carol, running in rivulets over her curves and down her cleavage, against Valkyries lips as she moved to the other nipple, unwilling to leave either out of her attention.

Carol uttered something and Valkyrie rose, sweeping the now soaking hair back from Carols face again. “Yes?” Was it possible Valkyrie had the upper hand with this intoxicating woman after all?

“My turn,” Carol laughed and Valkyrie, laughing, complied with Carol's hands as they made light work of her own damp attire. Within moments both women were naked from the waist up and this time it was Valkyrie against the tiled wall, head pressed back against the cool stone in ecstasy as Carol kissed and nipped and murmured promises against Valkyries dark skin.

“Oh,” Valkyrie moaned, stroking Carols cheek and feeling the curve of her own breast beneath Carols face. Valkyrie slid her hand under her chin, tilting her up to look at her, her nipple sliding out of Carol's mouth, Carols lower lip dragging softly as she rose up to embrace Valkyrie. Carols lips were back on hers, and Valkyrie held her tightly, as though she might melt away at any given moment. She moved from the wall to directly under the stream of water, the pair never pausing in their kissing.

Carols hands moved to Valkyries breasts again causing Valkyrie to moan into her open mouth, but she wasn’t giving in so easily. One of Valkyries hands was at the nape of Carol's neck, the other trailing down her skin to her suit pants, making light work of the fastenings, easing her hand inside the clothing, against Carol's skin. She felt rather than heard the needy sigh from Carol as Valkyries fingers found her underwear and shifted it out of the way, gliding her slender fingers down to Carols most private skin. Fingers that had been calloused for over a thousand years expertly parted Carol's labia finding new wetness that was warm and inviting and had nothing to do with the shower. Carols groan was heady and stole her from Valkyries lips as she threw her head back at the feeling of Valkyries fingers sweeping inside her, finding this new place to explore. Valkyrie pressed her mouth to Carol's neck, nibbling the tender skin and she curled her index finger inside Carol, her fingertip brushing against the sensitive nub of her clitoris, eliciting another keening moan. Valkyrie smiled, her teeth sharp against Carol's throat, feeling her pulse leap.

Carols nails dug gently against Valkyries back, as if she were her anchor. Valkyries ministrations inside Carol became more heated, inserting two fingers and switching to using her thumb on the proud cluster of nerves that made Carol cry out so wonderfully. Valkyrie laughed a low, rumbling laugh deep in her throat as Carol pulled away, dislodging Valkyries hand. Valkyrie locked eyes with Carol and lifted her fingers, opening her mouth and sucking the juice from her digits. “Mmmm…”

Carol shook her head, but she was smiling, yanking her skintight, waterlogged pants off, as well as the camisole from around her waist. She stood in the steaming water in nothing but her dishevelled underwear and that gods damned crooked smile. “My turn.”

Valkyrie laughed again as Carol closed the gap with kisses on every available part of skin, hands pulling at her clothes, disrobing her with ease even while Valkyrie instinctively twisted at the touches and kisses, evidently somewhat ticklish after all. Carols laughter joined hers over the sound of the shower until Valkyrie realised she was entirely nude. Carol palmed one Valkyries breasts, stilling the laughter, and scratched her nails oh so lightly down Valkyries war scarred abdomen, lower and lower, through the thatch of hair between her legs and then disappearing inside, drawing out a noise Valkyrie was certain she had never made before.

Carols hands were small and slender, her skin smooth and blemish free, deftly playing Valkyries own clitoris, slick with desire. Carols hands worked fast and the pressure inside Valkyrie built quickly, too quickly, so fast she felt she might explode and she wasn’t ready for that yet. Carol Danvers might have been a captain, but Valkyrie was had millennia on her. She outranked this human, no matter how many battleships Carol could take out single handed.

Valkyrie didn’t stop Carol, not outright, but she sank down to her knees, feeling Carols hands slide away from her body. Carol looked down at Valkyrie, the water dripping down her hair, over her face and dropping onto Valkyrie as she knelt reverently beneath her. A spark of amusement lit Carol's eyes and Valkyrie grinned, glad to have the upper hand, gratified for the unspoken agreement to move forward, in charge.

The shower was thick with steam and heat, but it could not dampen the scent of arousal that Valkyrie breathed in. She slowly traced her fingers up Carol's legs, over her thighs, hearing her hum of anticipation. Valkyries tongue darted out, licking a trail from Carol's thigh up towards the aroma, the taste still on Valkyries lips from sucking her own coated fingers. Carol murmured something that sounded suspiciously like “please”, but Valkyrie let her tongue linger tantalisingly close to the heated spot between Carol's legs. She breathed slowly over the skin feeling Carol's thigh twitch.

“Please.”

This time there was no mistaking it. Valkyrie smiled as she pressed her lips to Carol, opening her legs, slipping her tongue inside. The warmth and taste were all around and Carol moaned in earnest, her hand pressing to Valkyries hair, fingering the tight braid along her scalp. “Valkyrie…”

The whispered name sent shivers down Valkyries spine, and she reached her hands around, squeezing the soft flesh of Carol's backside, pressing her face closer, teasing her tongue over her clitoris. Carols reedy cry, rose higher, her fingers tightening, her legs trembling. Valkyrie took the little knot of nerves between her lips, sucking the nub tightly and darting the tip of her tongue towards it. Carol’s breath became ragged with the intensity of Valkyries attention. Heat rose beneath Valkyries fingers and she opened her eyes to the sight of golden blue light undulating from Carol's body. She fought a smile and maintained her efforts. With a thin, high cry, Valkyrie felt Carol's hips clench and buck and she rode the orgasm with her until Carol collapsed back against the wall, breathing hard.

Valkyrie looked up at the spent woman, the warmth and light still radiating around her, the water never ceasing it’s flow, pouring over her naked body, skin glowing and tight, her nipples erect, water flowing around them. Carol glanced down, the fierce light fading from her eyes to lock with Valkyries as she knelt and smiled up at her. “Amazing,” Carol managed between pants. “My turn.”

Valkyrie’s teeth flashed in a grin as Carol shut off the water and bent to sweep Valkyrie into her arms. She whooped as Carol carried her out of the shower and over to the bed, laughing as they fell together in a tangle of limbs and sheets.


	5. Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump/It Lives Beneath/Harper Vance

  
I awaken, not peacefully with fluttering eyelids, softly called from sleep by the gentle sounds of morning, but violently; sitting up in a rush before my eyes are fully open. Sleep only pressed pause on my lurching stomach and pounding heartbeat and now I pick up where I left off: sheer terror.

  
But blinking my eyes reveals that I’m no longer in direct danger. At least as far as I can tell. I’m home, or what has become my home. For a moment the memory of my old home, the one where I found my murdered parents flashes before my eyes and I suffer the gut-punch that comes every morning when I remember that they’re dead. I look over to Elliott's bed, but it’s empty, the covers thrown back and left in a mess.

My chest is heaving as I try to calm myself, centring myself on what I can see and feel. My bed beneath me, the warm comforter across my legs. I’m dressed in the clothes I wore last night; my hoodie and jeans. My shoes, a quick glance tells me, are neatly stood beside my bed. What the fuck?

I scramble to my feet and it’s like being tossed about on rough waters; my head spins and there are shooting pains here and there and there that I have to grab the bedpost and just breathe for what feels like an hour, though in truth it’s more like five seconds. A long five seconds. I stumble across the room, more twinges kicking in. My jeans are filthy and there's a rip in the knee which wasn’t there before. I remember Ned's house… I remember Ned's lifeless eyes. I remember the hooded figures who murdered him and the one which chased me from the property.

Then I’m tugging at my clothes, desperate to get them away from me, the clothes I wore when I was almost killed. The jeans go first, they are muddy at the hems and dried stiff and there is a streak of something dirty down the pant leg below the rip. My skin, warm brown like my mothers was, is mottled in places. I touch my fingertips to the large bruise on my hip, tinged with green and yellow. It takes me a second or two to place where this came from and then I recall being hauled out of the lake by that cop, Parker something. He was pretty strong, strong enough to pull my dead weight out of the lake, soaking clothes and all, but gentle he was not and I remember being bashed against the side of the boat as he dragged me on board. I don’t hold it against him; he saved my life. I don’t begrudge him a bruise and it is healing after all.

I do resent the rest of the bruises I find. The stain on my jeans leg comes from a gash on my knee, the skin an angry red beneath the tear in my skin. The bruise is bright red, the dried blood a patchy brown. The window I found, my escape route from that house and those people—murderers—I had already thrown my shoes out the window and was aiming to follow them, but I was thinking of freedom and distracted enough for that guy to get in the room. The bed, he yanked it out from under me, which seems insane in the cold light of day. Who would do that outside of a cartoon, pull a bed like a rug out from under me? I guess I must have unbalanced the bed because it moved, fast and I flew against the wall and then to the ground. It was landing on the ground that got my knee, I remember that.

With the memory of hitting the wall, I start to strip off my hoodie until I’m standing in my underwear, vest top and bra. I twist my arm and lift my elbow and sure enough where I struck the wall I see a dark lump, purple and angry. It hurts when I straighten my arm, but gripped by a sudden perverse anger I push through the pain with gritted teeth. I’m pissed off; pissed at myself for getting caught up in something that almost got me killed, pissed that the one person who believed me about those monsters in the lake is dead, pissed that in the last few weeks I’ve seen four people dead or dying. I’m not a doctor or a soldier or anyone else who might have to take death as a byproduct of their lives. I’m a student on summer vacation.

I stomp over to the dresser where I reluctantly unpacked my stuff, more of a gesture to Elliott that this place ought to feel like a home and that we should settle in. My heart sinks. Elliott… I can’t tell him about any of this. I change my underwear, yank on fresh clothes and shake my curly chestnut hair over my shoulders. That action sends a jab of pain through my skull and I clamp my eyes shut against the stars bursting before them. Fucking hell, what now?

There is a mirror in the bathroom and I hurry towards it after chucking on different shoes to the ones I wore last night. In the back of my mind I think about bagging those sneakers, my jeans and my hoodies, as if they might contain some sort of DNA evidence that… what? That I was at Ned's house? I’ve listened to enough true crime podcasts to know that DNA evidence is all well and good, but what on earth are the chances that Ned's killers and my attacker somehow left a hair or a fingerprint on my clothes? As I turn on the light in the bathroom I decide I will bag those clothes, but it’s less for evidence retention and more that I just can’t bear the idea of looking at them again. I haven’t worn the clothes I had on when Elliott and I found mom and dad either. If I keep this up I’ll be needed a whole new wardrobe soon enough. That thought doesn’t make me smile.

I stand over the sink and take in my face. Oh boy…

I look like I’ve been in a fight and lost. There’s a shiner on my cheek, high, along the bone. I blink. I slammed into the wall from the bed, my face hitting first, then my elbow, then my knee hit the floor. I touch it gently and wince. Fuck.

Lower down there’s a nasty purple bruise on my chin. What was that from? I close my eyes and think: I got up from the floor, adrenaline masking my injuries and leapt for the window, but he grabbed my ankles and tugged me back. I grasped the frame—I open my eyes and glance at my fingers and sure enough there are small scratches on them from the wood and two of my nails have splintered—but he was strong and I bumped my face on the windowsill.

Those will be harder to hide. My mind is whirring for a lie and God damn it if I don’t hate that I’m trying to hide evidence of a man beating me up. I swore to myself that would never be me and maybe it’s not the same as what my bastard of a biological father did to my mom before we left and she found Todd, but it’s uncomfortably close and I’m pissed off again about what happened to me last night.

It’s only when I’m leaving that I turn and glance back at the mirror as I’m reaching for the light that I see the final physical memory of that fight. The straps of my top are black and around them across my shoulder and back are scratches and deep bruises so blue they’re almost black. At once I’m falling again, twisted around after kicking that fucker in the face so I can look up and see the sky flying away from me as the ground rushes up and it feels like forever before the ground slams against me.

That was when I passed out. Did I come to, find my shoes and stumble home? I guess I’ve done worse after a bar crawl at college, but this feels different. How come that guy didn’t come out and finish the job? I fell from a window overlooking the street and OK it was nighttime but did nobody notice?

As I go and grab a jacket to hide those bruises and dig for some foundation to try to mask the ones on my face, it occurs to me again that I lived. Somehow last night despite their best efforts, I lived. Ned wasn’t so lucky. Determined, I grab my phone and wallet, shoving them into my pockets and head downstairs. Officer Parker Something has a story to hear and I’ll be damned if I’m going to live with the secret of what happened last night.


	6. Uniform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kink/Dragon Age/Amell

  
There were two types of people in Kinloch Hold. Those in robes and those in plate metal. Lorelei Amell was the former; sitting in a lesson one day when a new batch of Templars arrived from wherever it was that they trained boys to be watchful men. It was always men, Lorelei noted as she watched them pass by the doorway of the classroom. Perhaps it was not so elsewhere, but in Kinloch, the only home she had known since she was a little girl, the Templars were always men.

  
The final newbie passed by, glancing briefly through the doorway and catching her eye. Lorelei sat up a little straighter in her chair. He wasn’t a man. He quickly averted his gaze, fierce red blushing over his cheeks all the way up to his curly blonde hair. He was just a boy. Loreli smirked behind her hand. How fun.

She found out his name a few days later. Templar Rutherford, that moniker she learned earlier, it was his given name she wanted and this she got heard from Irving when he was discussing the new batch of Templars with Gregoir. Cullen was the name. She tasted the name in her mouth, enjoying the curl of her tongue around the letters. She secreted the little morsel away for later.

Lorelei allowed herself to be seen by Cullen Rutherford as much as possible over the next week. She took note of his schedule and ensured she could be around as often as possible during his patrols. It was funny, really, how the Templars watched the mages, that she became so hyperaware of his movements. The Templars watched with naked eyes, not bothering to hide their viewing—it was their job after all. The mages watched the Templars back in secret, just like they did so many other things.

When Cullen saw Lorelei she kept her back to him at first. Let him see her long black hair, the longest and shiniest of the mages her age. She left it loose so it could catch his eye, enjoying how it stood out against the purple robes she wore to denote her rank of apprentice. She would give it a moment or two, pretending to be engrossed in her activity at the time, before she would suddenly feel his eyes on her back and turn, widening her deep brown eyes, opening her mouth into a small O of surprise as she caught his eye, which she caught every time. She would have been more shocked to find that he hadn’t been staring, but as she expected he couldn’t help himself. Lorelei wasn’t a vain woman, though she knew she was striking with her almond-shaped eyes and moon-glow skin, quite unlike most of the other women in the tower. Rather she knew he was looking at her because she was placing herself in his line of sight so often that he must have thought he was imagining her. She was making herself seen and found it rather thrilling.

At night, alone in her bed, though not alone in her dormitory, she thought about the shy, blonde boy in plate metal and how much fun it was to tease him and wondered if he was thinking about her.

Safety came from fabric robes, not hard metal. That was the lesson quickly learned by all new initiates, no matter their age. The Templars were ostensibly there to keep the mages safe as they practised with their Maker given abilities, but it was not to the Templars the children ran when they set fire to their bedsheets. It was not the Templars who held them when they cried for the homes they had left behind. Every mage child knew the feeling of tears on robes. Lorelei, along with all of her peers, knew the feeling of Templar gazes, and although in her time at the Circle, none of the Templars had pushed their luck with the mages, it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. To find this boy at the forefront of her mind, this boy in Templar armour, who wielded the ability to strip her of her magic and render her largely helpless should not have been a source of amusement or arousal for her. She knew that. And yet, so it was.

The first time she spoke his name, she watched his face.

“Thank you, Cullen.” The first words she ever spoke to him, unfurling from her lips like smoke wrapped around him and he looked up from the floor where he had been retrieving her dropped books. His skin flushed immediately and she smiled slyly.

Cullen rose, slowly, nervously. “I, ah… you’re welcome.” He held out the books.

“Lorelei.” She finished though he hadn’t left room for her to fill in the blanks. She touched her fingers to the book, leaving space between their hands, though it was a close call. Cullen flinched his hand back. He swallowed and nodded once, then spun on his heel and marched away. Lorelei smirked and held her books to her.

He was afraid of her. Watching him over the next couple of days she could see it was not just her, but he was afraid. Afraid of the scary mages corralled into a tower, lest they should what? Turn him into a frog?

Lorelei liked the idea of him fearing her. That he looked for her now, even when she no longer placed herself before him, thrilled her deep inside.

He was stationed in the corridor outside her dormitory one day when the Maker smiled upon her and gave them a blessed few moments alone. There would be no retreat from him on this day; he was commanded to stand stalwart. When she saw him in the corridor Lorelei couldn’t hold back a genuine smile. This was an unexpected delight; he must have swapped shifts.

She approached him boldly, making no bones about the fact that she was heading straight for him. He nodded once to her, a muscle in his jaw working overtime as he turned his head to stare away from her. Lorelei came to a stop before him and smiled warmly. He glanced back at her, thrown by the beaming smile.

“Good evening Cullen.”

“You shouldn’t call me that.”

“Oh?” Lorelei feigned confusion. “Is it not your name?”

“I’m a Templar,” Cullen said, his voice low and hurried. “You should speak to me with the proper respect.”

Lorelei took a step back and cast her gaze over him, slowly appraising every inch of him from top to feet and back up again. “I can see that you are a Templar. Tell me, how does the uniform make you feel? Is it very… hard?”

A cheap shot, but she scored several points in her private tally as he flushed again and adjusted his stance. So it was.

Lorelei edged closer again, until he was practically trying to sink into the wall behind him. Little frightened mouse in plate metal. “I have the utmost of respect for you Cullen. I can see how difficult this position is and yet you remain, pledging your life to keeping us safe.” She made her eyes as solemn as possible as she locked her gaze with his. A drop of sweat broke from his forehead and slid down his nose. “I respect you a great deal. Cullen.”

Cullens throat worked as he wet his lips with his tongue. He remained as still as possible barring those slight movements, arms pressed to his sides. Another bead of sweat followed the path of the first. Lorelei finally stepped away from him, smiling coyly as she turned, brushing her hair over her shoulder and disappeared into her dormitory.

Once inside she was glad to find the room devoid of her roommates. Lorelei leaned back against the wooden door, dropping the parchment she had been carrying and tugging up the skirts of her robes, slipping a hand inside her small clothes. Cullen was outside in the corridor, perspiring and trembling and she plunged her index finger into her sodden centre, working herself quickly into a frenzy. Loreleis mind stole outside, imagining him on the other side, his ear to the wood, listening to her small breaths and gentle moans. It was over in mere minutes, the build up from her brief interaction with Cullen enough to take her to the edge and Lorelei was well versed in making her body sing. Panting heavily she rested against the door letting her skirts fall.

Later in bed, she wondered how long it would take to remove each piece of armour from his body. She pictured him standing as still as if he were carved from stone, letting her fingers find the fastenings, unclipping, unbuckling, sliding the folds of metal off his limbs, exposing his chest. What did he wear underneath, she wondered. Surely he was not nude beneath the hot metal. The thought sent a thrum directly to the spot between her legs that she had expertly teased earlier and surrounded by the sleeping sounds of her peers she forced herself to quietly and slowly draw out the ecstasy that had practically exploded in her only a few hours before. When would he break, she wondered, if she were removing his armour for him. Would he remain silent and still throughout, or would he groan her name and take her, up against a wall perhaps or after sweeping a desk of its contents and laying her back. Would he unleash whatever coiled beast laid dormant inside him. Or would he let her stay in charge, yielding power to her, the thing he found so frightening and so tempting.

Afterwards she slipped smiling into a deep, restful sleep.

The Templars armour denoted power, it was true, but Lorelei knew the power she held.


	7. Hypothermia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whump/Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows/Hermione

“Harry?” wiping the sleep from her eyes, Hermione stumbled from the tent. Harry had been gone too long and she’d woken with a start from a dream involving Ron and giants, which had left a lingering acid taste of fear in her mouth. If Ron hadn’t stormed off and left them, she’d be sleeping better. Not plagued by nightmares, not waking every hour to a new horror. “Harry!”

It was cold in the woods, so cold. Her breath misted before her as she stumbled away from the tent in a daze. Harry was nowhere to be seen. Hermione pulled tight the cardigan she’d thrown on and peered through the gloom. _Are you a witch or not?_ Eleven-year-old Ron's words pierced her mind as she struggled to see and she fumbled for her wand, sticking it out ahead and muttering “_Lumos_” Pale light bloomed, unusually ineffective for her casting. “Harry!”

From somewhere in the distance she heard a sudden splash and she turned quickly to source the direction of the noise. As she turned and stepped forward her foot caught on a root and before she could stop herself, Hermione pitched forwards, glancing off a tree, feeling a painful wrench in her wrist. The flickering light of her Lumos spell spun out as her wand flew into the undergrowth, but Hermione didn’t see it. She was falling, connecting heavily with the ground on her shoulder, the momentum carrying her forward, legs spinning in the air as she started to roll down an embankment. Over and over she fell, the world veering off its axis until she reached the bottom with a crack on her skull and everything went black.

The wind had picked up by the time Hermione blinked back to life. Her cardigan was half off her, one arm frozen and exposed. She was shivering and her head swam when she tried to push herself to a sitting position. Her fingers closed over her wand and she lifted it, mumbling three attempts at light before realising the wand she held was just a stick. She frowned down at it, the information taking far too long to penetrate her mind. She dropped the stick and reached for the loose arm of her woollen garment, finding it heavy when she pulled it to her. Wet. It was wet. She traced the feeling up the arm of the cardigan to her back. _She_ was wet. She craned her head around, leaves rustling in her hair and she peered in the gloom down to her clothes. The wind blew across her back, sending sharp prickles of cold into her skin. She shrugged off the cardigan, leaving it in the small pool of icy water and pushed herself up.

The wind caressed her bare arms and she looked all around to orientate herself. Trees surrounded her and she craned her head up looking to the sky where stars were scattered between the bare winter branches. Hermione couldn’t remember why she’d even left the tent, though she remembered that was where warmth was. She started walking.

Her foot found the pool and slipped into the icy shallows, washing over the canvas of her shoes and seeping into her sock. She let out a yelp and hurried out, arms wrapping around herself.

Hermione put one foot in front of the other, the trees passing her by. Every so often she felt one connect with her shoulder and it spun her out, but she kept pressing forward in whatever direction she found herself facing. One particularly aggressive tree caught her knee as well and she flew to the ground, landing on her back, hard, expelling her breath in one violent motion. Winded, she lay in the dirt, crunchy leaves scattering across her body where she rested. Maybe she would close her eyes for a moment. That seemed a good idea; the stars above were beginning to dance and that was beautiful but very distracting. She would shut her eyelids—they were so heavy—and block out the swirling and swooping bright white blobs. She had to be somewhere, probably a lesson. She had the strongest sensation of being late, but it was OK because Professor McGonagall had arranged for her to borrow a Time-Turner. No sooner had she thought this did she remember that she had lost something. What if it were the Time-Turner. She suddenly remembered they had been destroyed—did she have the last one? She really had to find it.

She would find the Time-Turner as soon as the stars stopped flitting about. She opened her eyes to check and found they were still fluttering around, like winged keys. That felt like an odd thing to imagine; whoever had heard of keys with wings? Hermione closed her eyes again.

“—ione”

The world was moving again, but her eyes would not open.

“Plea—”

It was all happening in bits and pieces, not like how life usually happened. That much she knew

“—don’t—”

“—ome on, thi—”

She wished she could blink her ears to help the words inside. That seemed like an amusing thought and maybe she was smiling but it was hard to tell. Everything felt very strange.

She was looking for something. Hermione thought she was opening her eyes, but blackness remained all around her so she must not have succeeded. Her body was trembling all over, that sensation started to come back to her slowly. There was a sudden riot of flapping and then she felt the breeze die all at once. Something soft was cradling her and her hair was brushed off her face.

“Come on Hermione.” A hand, boiling hot to the touch on her frozen face, was pressed to her forehead.

“I think it’s like this.” Another voice and suddenly a gust of air, warm blew across her in a wave before petering out.

“Try again.”

“I am trying.”

Another blast of air this one warmer still, lingering for longer. She felt her hair blow back and mercifully the shivering began to abate. “Make some tea.”

Heavy weights were placed over her and she could sense a bustle of movement, the air still blowing through her clothes and skin, forcing away the chill. Finally Hermione realised light was permeating the slits in her eyelids and she forced them open further still.

The tent. Of course. She was back in the tent, where she’d gone looking for Harry and gotten into trouble almost immediately. How mortifying. Harry must have found her after all. She looked up at the boy with the untidy black hair, his back to her as he lit a flame beneath their travel kettle. Her brown eyes scanned the room as movement caught her eye and they alighted on a second figure, who turned and met her gaze as she did so.

“Ron?”

His face was a picture of relief as he sank to his knees before her, cradling her face in his large hands so tenderly. Up close she could see his freckles. “Thank goodness.”

“Where did you come from?”

“I came back,” Ron explained, his face flushing and he pulled back a little, the shame of leaving clear in his eyes. “I shouldn’t have left, I…”

“You came back,” Hermione said soothingly, working a hand free of the blanket cocoon she had been enveloped in and touching his hand. “That’s what matters.”


	8. Masturbation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kink/Dragon Age/Alistair

Finally away from the rest of the party, his hands go to his breeches, tugging at the cords that bind it shut. His hands work frantically, mind fully invested on his hurried task, no thought to the others. She’s on watch, softly laughing with Leliana, the delicacy of the sound a million miles away from the filthy mouth she possesses. She does it on purpose, he’s sure of it, judging by the times he’s caught her grey eyes on him after saying something to make his ears flame red. He should never have let it slip that he’s never… licked a lampost in winter.

The women are far enough away that he’s able to release his straining erection, irritatingly persistent all evening. Just when he’s been able to calm it, she enters his mind and then it rises once again. It’s been torture and it’s worse knowing she seems to be angling for exactly this reaction from him.

He knows she deliberately let her shirt laces loosen the evening before. Returning from bathing, her armour discarded in order to take a refreshing dip in the river they had camped beside, her shirt untucked, haphazardly fastened. He had quite by accident looked up as she turned, her neck stretching as she rolled her shoulders, the fabric cresting over the curve of her creamy white breast, her nipple peaking in the chill night air. She had glanced back at him over her shoulder, a smirk playing on her lips at his flaming cheeks. He had watched her hips sway as she slowly headed for her tent and crawled inside to sleep beside Leliana.

He groans, taking himself in hand. That really isn’t an appropriate thought; the two of them together. They are friends, nothing more, and to imagine them together inside that private canvas tent, the air heated, skin slick with perspiration… no, he can’t think about them like that.

Alistair swallows a groan as his fingers stroke his shaft, unsheathing himself, unable to hold back a shudder that could be excitement or the chill of the night air. His trousers are pushed down only enough to cup himself and release his erection. His back is sensibly turned towards the camp, a precaution in case anyone comes looking for him. He can just about hear the women's voices as they talk.

What if she did come to find him? He strokes himself, eyes fluttering shut for a moment and he bites his lip, hard. What if she came to him with her shirt unlaced? She knows what to do, she’s not shy about talking of her experience. She would know what he was doing at once and no doubt she would smirk and chuckle and ask if he needs a hand. Ask what he’s thinking about and he would answer honestly. _You_. Her grin would broaden and those delicious hips would roll as she slowly walks to him. Her fingers would run along the shirt, almost but not quite opening it all the way. The swell of her breasts rising as she breathed faster, her anticipation heating with her skin, as droplets of sweat break out and trickle down her cleavage. He would lick them up.

Alistair’s breath catches in his throat with the sensation of tightness around his shaft. He grips harder, sliding his foreskin along the stiff member, feeling the silky smoothness beneath his clumsy fingers.

He wouldn’t be clumsy with her. It’s _his_ fantasy and he knows what to do. He knows how to kiss her crude mouth, sucking on that prominent lower lip, taking it between his teeth. She wouldn’t have a comeback for that. For once, he would be in charge, and he would slide his hands under her shirt, rolling those coy nipples under his palms. He bites harder on his own lip now, his hand grasping himself at the base, movements speeding up.

He thinks of her again, the shirt vanished by his imagination. He saw her bathing once. It was an accident, but then again were there any accidents around her? He wasn’t a quiet man and hadn’t been hiding his approach, not knowing she was there, and the fact that she rose from the water at the precise moment she was in his eye line seemed too good to be true. He’d clamped his eyes shut, turned away with a scrambled apology and a silent prayer to the Maker that he not be struck blind at the sight of her soaking skin, but the image of her naked flesh was seared into his brain. There was no pretending here, he knew the exact colour of her nipples, knew they were not dissimilar to her neck when flushed with exertion and he thinks of them now, thinks of the activities they might perform to draw that colour to her skin again. Not sparring, not exactly. Armour and weapons cast aside, clothing stripped away, hands everywhere.

He wonders how she might feel if he touches her like he’s touching himself under the stars in the woods. He leans forward, bracing himself against a tree, palm pressing to the rough bark as he slides his hand up and down himself slowly. He doesn’t want to get caught, despite his minds invention, but he doesn’t want to rush this. He’s not ready yet, there is more of this fantasy to unfold.

Even as he thinks this, his hand clamps down on himself, a shudder running between his legs. Damn it, he’s close and maybe that’s for the best. The images flash quicker now with no semblance of a story unfolding. Her skin in the moonlight, her hair brushing his thighs as she takes him into her mouth and sucks, those grey eyes gazing up at him. He pictures her hands pushing her tits together, even though he blushes to even think of her that way, but his treacherous mind has her head thrown back as he rubs his swollen head between the two mounds. He groans out loud, the tightening at the base almost painful as his imaginations finale is him thrusting hard inside her, wet and warm and welcoming, his name on her lips, crying out, her eyes rolling back as he pleasures her like a lover should.

Alistair lets out a strangled cry, his seed spilling over his fist, again and again and again.

Spent, he drops his head against his forearm leaning against the tree that he’s definitely painted with his exuberance. He can’t find it in him to care and he pants, taking in gulps of air. All at once he feels foolish, his erection vanished, flaccid and sticky, pushed gently back inside his trousers, every nerve still heightened, but the fear of discovery is suddenly too unbearable to leave himself hanging out in the breeze. He wipes his hand on his breeches and he hastily ties the cords.

He can’t bear the idea of returning to camp while the women are still on watch; what if they can tell just by looking at him what he was doing, where his mind went? Alistair looks up to the sky, cursing the Maker for sending her into his life, with her teasing, her coy smiles and her knowing grey eyes, and he forces himself to wait until he hears the changeover and only when the women are safely hidden in their tent does he slink back into camp and to bed.


	9. Second Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff/Fallout 4/Hancock

The first time Nora kissed him they’d been moments from death. That was nothing new in the Boston Commonwealth their flirtation with peril being an ever present danger, the kind that left a person sleeping with one eye open whenever possible, but the kiss… now that had been a surprise.

John Hancock, former mayor of Goodneighbor, had never been one for running headfirst into firefights, though he would never back down either. It was a fine line he had walked and he was happy with that. Had been. Nora Fraser had exploded into his life and changed everything, awoken from her 200-year cryogenic sleep to chase across this new world in search of her missing son. Hancock had let her help him with a problem and by the end of it, she was his new problem. A lifelong addict he knew there were some things a person just didn’t quit and she was his greatest new high. 

It had been Saugus Ironworks. The location of their kiss. It was an ironic location, he had to admit. A one time factory turned into the base of the Forged, those pyschos that dealt in fire and flames, for that kiss was seared on his brain. Nora had heard a sob story about a mans son running off to join those crazy bastards and naturally had charged off like a god damned knight in shining armour, with a bewildered Hancock running to keep up. They’d found him sure enough, battled through Forged assholes to the blast furnace where they’d faced down a particularly insane raider in power armour, who wanted to feed the stupid kid to the furnace, if not for Nora's intervention. She had a particularly nasty scald on her arm, which had shone red and had to have hurt like a bitch, but you’d never have known that to look at her, casually standing with that arm on her hip, the other resting lightly on her gun and she’d cracked jokes. Hancock had given a fair few speeches in his time, but he’d all but gazed at her talking and convincing the kid not to stick with the Forged. And then, just before the talk turned south and the bullets started raining down on them, she’d held up one finger to pause the discussion, turned to Hancock, touched his ghoulish cheek and pressed her sweet, soft lips to his mouth, jolting lightning through his skull as if he’d gone outside in the middle of a nuclear storm.   
He’d asked her afterwards what had possessed her to kiss him then and there, right before a fight to the death and she’d shrugged. Said it seemed like the perfect time. 

They hadn’t seen each other for a little while after taking the kid back to his farm. Nora had received a tip from Valentine and left Hancock to co-ordinate the final sweep through the Ironworks to ensure none of the Forged were still hanging about like mould building up to spread through it again. He’d enlisted some of the ghouls from the Slog and Strong and together they’d cleared out the stragglers. A good mission; Nora’s deed reached further than he had expected and then he was busy helping settle in the latest folk moving into the Slog. 

It still seemed like an amazing thing, that Nora had stopped to help a settlement full of ghouls. Still seemed incredible that she’d even deigned to kiss his ugly mug, as far as he was concerned. As the days stretched on, Hancock stayed at the Slog and helped fix it up. The newbies needed somewhere to live and hey, he didn’t want to go wandering and miss the chance to see Nora again if she came looking for him. By day he helped farm crops, handled repairs, saw off ne’er-do-wells that got too close and by night he played cards and laughed and chased synthetic highs, wishing Nora was back and in his arms. 

The harder he missed her, the more he thought about the kiss, and the more he thought about it, the less sure he felt about her intentions with it. They’d used their last supplies before reaching the furnace, arguing briefly over who would get the final Stimpak (him, she had stuck it in his arm before he knew what was happening) and they had scarce few bandages left. Nora was a smart woman, they were clearly outnumbered and quite probably outgunned. She kept the raiders talking long enough to assess that, so when she’d decided to kiss him it had to have been because she thought they were inches from death. Hancock weighed up his feelings on the matter and decided that if she didn’t care for him that way, at least he’d had the chance to feel her lips just that once.

A shipment of copper arrived to the Slog one morning and Hancock sent out a thought of thanks to Nora who he knew had to have arranged it. He got to work assigning the products to the new lighting rig they were setting up to run from each new home and got on with his day. After a quick lunch he was hammering the roof back into place where the wind had loosened the corrugated steel while the radio played down below. The sun was beating down on him and he paused to push back his hat, wiping his brow. He’d shrugged off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves and was just wondering about calling down for a drink, when someone clanked up the ladder and a cold Nuka Cola was set down before him, the top already off. He looked up, the sun behind her making him squint and casting her in shadow, but he would’ve known her anywhere. “Nora.”

“Sorry I was gone so long.” She said, climbing onto the roof and sitting down beside Hancock. He picked up the drink and took a long swill of the refreshing liquid. “I missed you.”

Hancock laughed drily, even as his heart skipped. “I’m sure you had plenty better to be doing that worrying about not seeing this face again.”

Nora smiled, but her gaze was intense. Hancock took another drink just for something to do and anyway his throat was suddenly drier than a radscorpion nest. 

“I missed you.” She said again, only this time her voice was low and after a tiny pause she leaned forward and this time Hancock met her halfway, dropping the Cola and wrapping both arms around her, holding her close, feeling her smooth skin against him. All the stuff he’d told himself about accepting that the kiss at Saugus was a one time thing was bullshit. Nora was his greatest addiction and he’d chase the high from her kisses until he the day the world ended.


	10. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff/Marvel/Carol Danvers

“I’m still not entirely sure what I should call you.”

“How about Valkyrie.”

“Well, I’m doing that, but it feels… weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. It’s not a name, is it? It’s a rank. It’d be like you calling me Captain.”

“Ooh, I like that. Captain.”

Carol laughed as her cheeks rushed with warmth as Valkyrie stopped their casual stroll to slide her arms around Carol's waist, pulling her closer. She nuzzled her nose into the crook of Carol's neck and sighed. “Oh, Captain.”

“Knock it off,” Carol snorted through her laughter, playfully pushing Valkyrie away, who grinned broadly. “I’m serious.”

Valkyrie interlaced her fingers with Carols and resumed their walk. Carol fell happily into step beside her. There was a row of shops to one side across the road and the other side was a lazy river, slowly winding through the town. They’d left New York behind and headed upstate to get some time to just be the two of them. “You’re cute when you’re serious.”

Carol fixed her with a look, brows low, eyes boring into Valkyries. It was a look that stopped people in their tracks before she even started to glow, though this look was tempered somewhat by the cheeky pout she was adding to the mix. She had no intention of blasting Valkyrie with her powers. Not least because she felt pretty sure that Valkyrie was among those few in the universe who could probably shrug it off, at least for a while. A gentle thrill spun through Carol's nerves at the thought. It was terribly exciting to be with someone who practically matched her for strength and resilience. Part of the allure of joining their airforce back in the eighties had been to see the world, meet new people. Now here she was on leave from her off-world activities with a gorgeous alien on her arm. She felt pretty damn lucky.

She’d have felt luckier still if Valkyrie had just told her her name. “Well, I’m not calling you Valkyrie anymore, so you’ll have to tell me something.”

Valkyries lips pursed into a secret smile. “You called me God the other night, I’m fine sticking with that.”

Carols brown eyes widened and she couldn’t help the nervous giggle that worked its way to the surface. “Oh my—” She paused.

“God?” Valkyrie smirked. Carol balled up her hand and aimed a punch for Valkyries shoulder, who dropped her arm, evading the blow, catching the fist in her hand. She raised it to her lips, eyes never leaving Carols and brushed her knuckles with soft lips.

“You’re the worst,” Carol said, though her tone and smile belied her words. Valkyrie seemed to know it and smiled again. They started walking.

Up ahead there was a coffee cart and Carol paused to drop some cash on two large black coffees. They’d both learned each others preferred drinks that first morning waking up together and so Carol knew they as they both steadily walked and sipped, Valkyrie was missing the whiskey liquor just as much as she was. This coffee was good, too, albeit without the added kick.

There was a bench at the first bend in the river and they wordlessly sank onto the wooden seat, thighs touching. Coffee and contemplation, Carol thought, a perfect combination only improved by the company and she reached out an arm to drape across Valkyries shoulders.

“I do have a name,” Valkyrie said suddenly. She was looking down at her two hands cupping the takeaway coffee. Carol said nothing. “It’s Asgardian, of course.”

“You think I won’t be able to pronounce it?” Carol teased gently. “I’ve been around, my ear is pretty good.”

Valkyrie smiled. “Nah, it’s not that.” She looked up, across the water where a due of geese were swimming side by side. “After my unit went down, I kind of lost myself for a bit. I didn’t want to be one of the Valkyrie anymore, not if I was the last one living. We’d helped banish a great threat to our realm but the cost was… everything.” Carol cocked her head to one side, face solemn. This was no time for jokes. She stroked her fingers lightly up and down Valkyries arm and waited for her to go on. “So yeah, I got lost. I deliberately got lost. Ended up all over until I found Thor or he found me. Whatever.” She sighed. “I have a name and it’s mine and I… I’ll tell you it—”

“Hey, hey, don’t worry about it,” Carol said, edging closer and bending to put the cup down beside her feet. What had seemed so urgent suddenly felt far less so. “I was only messing around. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I know,” Valkyrie cast a sidelong glance at Carol. “I’m not going to say it just yet, but I want to. Soon enough, I promise. Is that cool?”

“Very,” Carol said, leaning in and feeling a frisson of excitement when Valkyrie met her halfway in the kiss. They remained on the bench for the next few minutes, lips talking without saying a word. Carol traced Valkyries jawline, from her ear to her chin and tilted her face to meet her eyes. They were round, serious. “I’ll just call you Kiri until then.”

Valkyrie’s face creased with laughter and Carol pressed another kiss to her, drinking in her joy and feeling like the pair were enveloped in radiance as she did. It wouldn’t have been the first time this miraculous woman had made her glow after all.


	11. Lap Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kink/Harry Potter (Marauders)/Sirius Black

“Come _on_ Prongs, it’s my special night.”

The glasses on James face reflected the neon sign of the building Sirius had stopped them at. His expression was unreadable until he reached up and pushed them up his nose, turning the glass from opaque to clear once again. Hazel eyes stared back. “I’m sorry, Padfoot. Silly of me to forget that my stag do is your special night.” There was an amused smirk on his face.

Sirius shrugged. “All I’m saying is that I take my best man duties very, very seriously. I researched this and everything.”

“It’s true, he did.” Remus put forth wearily. “I had to help him find the right books at the library. And then read them for him. And recount the pertinent points. Only—” he cast a glance at his friend, sighing. “—I certainly didn’t tell him about this place or the rather outdated tradition this kind of establishment profit from.”

Sirius waved his hand dismissively through the night air. “Maybe I did some of the research myself.”

“He asked Fletcher.” Peter helpfully added, to a frown from Sirius. James looked incredulous.

“I am not going anywhere if it was recommended by _Dung_ _Fletcher_!” He exclaimed.

Sirius stepped forward, making his eyes as beseeching as possible. “Come on Prongs. Just for a little while. Let’s live like Muggles for a few hours. See some pretty ladies dance. I got some Muggle money just for this…”

It was hard to tell which of the three young men coloured more at his words. Sirius could have kicked himself.

“I have the prettiest lady waiting for me at home,” James said, shoving his hands in his pockets, still a little shy of his great love for Lily Evans even on the night before their wedding.

“Who you can’t see tonight.” Sirius retorted.

James looked like he was starting to get a little annoyed. “I will see her tomorrow, and you know what Sirius?” Ouch. He was in trouble. Sirius chewed on his lip as James tone took on a hard tone. “I’ll see you tomorrow, too. Do what you want tonight, but I’m going back home and I hope I’ll see you tomorrow at the church. Don’t be late. Don’t forget the rings.”

Sirius refused to say anything as his best friend turned and started walking to an alleyway. He went out of sight drawing his wand and then the shiver in the air that came with Apparating caught his eye. Sirius looked to his other friends. Remus, he felt sure, wouldn’t want to stay, though sometimes he could convince him to stay out with him just to keep an eye out for him. Peter might come. But with one glance he could see neither were meeting his gaze. “I can’t tempt you?”

“Sorry, Padfoot,” Remus said and he really did sound sorry. “It’s not for me. See you later?” Sirius shrugged and Remus headed for the same alleyway.

Peter dithered for a moment then bolted after Remus. Sirius mouth soured watching them leave, but he didn’t wait. He turned and stalked into the building, paying his fee and heading inside to a seat before a catwalk with a pole at the end.

Music was pounding, nothing he recognised, but he was masquerading as a Muggle so he bopped his head along to the rhythm and went to his seat. Someone was by his side in an instant wanting to know what he wanted to drink. He had looked up the drinks menu before heading inside so he requested something that sounded like it might taste familiar. The music and lights changed as a young woman began a sultry, slow walk down the catwalk to grab the pole and lazily spin around it, held by one arm. Sirius sipped his whiskey, somewhat lacking in fire compared to what he was used to, and looked across the stage to a group of lads who were cheering. There were four men he would have put around his age opposite him, all with small drinks in hand, clapping each other on the back, gazing up at the dancer. Sirius felt a pang of resentment at their happiness and wished he could fire a small jinx their way. Nothing big; upend their booze maybe, or give them uncomfortable itches.

It wasn’t their fault he was alone. If James weren’t going to come in there was no way the others would have come. Sirius liked the feel like the man in charge of the Marauders adventures, but the truth was that although he dreamed up the plans, it was James who gave them credence. If he didn’t like it, it didn’t happen. Sirius huffed into his glass. Now the bastard was getting married in the morning and Sirius would have even less say in what they did.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Lily, but she didn’t understand how important it was for the boys to have each other. Didn’t get the bond he and James shared. She had her own relationship with James, which he didn’t begrudge her for, but she had a history of picking shitty friends if Snivellus was anything to go by. Sirius snorted then, a sharp twist of amusement that came whenever he thought back to their school days and how they ruled the school to the detriment of idiots like Snape.

Bored of watching the lads and determined not to sulk, Sirius looked up at the dancer, who had hooked one leg around the pole and was performing some feat of acrobatics. It was impressive as she spun and then flipped upside down, not breaking her rhythm. Her hair was long and loose and flared as she twirled. It was a deep, rich brown, like chocolate frogs and Sirius finished his whiskey, entranced by the hair. The lights flashed and he frowned; that deep brown suddenly looked more red now. He blinked again, transfixed by the hair, which was now almost purple. He kept his eyes firmly on the hair as she pulled herself upright, the hair swishing around her shoulders and now it was blue, so dark it looked… no it was definitely black now.

Sirius pulled his gaze from her hair to her face as she gyrated with the pole behind her. Her face was made up with large wings painted over her eyelids and past her narrow brows. Those blue wings almost seemed to move as he watched. Her lashes had matching feathers at the ends and they were wafting as she opened and closed her eyes, but the painted wings… were moving. Sirius got to his feet, eyes narrowed at her make up. She glanced down at him and he started when he realised he knew her.

Her set done she bowed, collected her tips and headed away before he could say a word. Had she recognised him?

Sirius turned to the waitress who was back, collecting his empty glass. “Excuse me, can I have a word with that girl who was just up there?” He asked, jerking his thumb that way.

The waitress smiled coyly. “Raven? Yeah she’s popular. You’ll have to book at the desk if you want a private dance, but I happen to know she’s free.” She winked. “Have fun.”

Sirius hurried to the desk and after a few moments and a hefty transaction he found himself in a curtained off room with a man standing outside the door, arms folded, not outright watching through the small window, but his eyes were peeled for trouble. Sirius sank into the booth with another whiskey and waited. After a moment Raven as she was calling herself stepped into the room.

Even in the dim light of the wall sconces in the booth, Sirius recognised her. Apparently he wasn’t the only one pretending to be a Muggle.

“Arabella Hinde?”

Her eyes went wide. “Oh fuck me, if it isn’t Sirius Black.”

They stared at each other a moment before she started to laugh. “Well, it’s Raven when I’m at work. You want a dance?”

Sirius was still reeling from his discovery. “What are you doing here?”

‘Raven’ dropped her hip, resting her hand on the prominent side, painted lips pouting with a tease. “You want to talk? I have to dance. You paid, right?”

Sirius nodded hurriedly. “You don’t have to…”

She strode slowly over and leaned forwards her hair, which was the darkest blue he’d ever seen, stroked against his face as she put her lips to his ear. “Don’t you have questions?”

He swallowed nodding and then she was sliding into his lap. He felt something constrict inside and for a moment couldn’t breathe as she spread her legs to straddle his thighs. Her perfume was everywhere and suddenly he felt very vulnerable. “Ara— Raven…”

Her breasts, barely concealed by a tiny scrap of a bra, were just under his nose and he pulled back against the seat. “What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” she replied, her voice sultry. “Didn’t feel like joining the adult world just yet.”

“I forget,” Sirius started, his voice catching as she brushed her fingers around the nape of his neck, teasing his too long hair. Her bare thighs slipped further towards him. He wished he wasn’t wearing Muggle clothes; how the hell did they manage erections in jeans? “How many years below us were you?”

“Are you checking my age?” Raven asked, smirking. She dropped her lips to his neck and he flinched, a shiver of excitement bristling out from the spot where they touched. His hands were stretched out, gripping the back of his chair. “Only two. I’m old enough for this, Mr Black.”

She ground her hips against him and Sirius groaned loudly, throwing his head back. He bit his lip again, drawing a pinch of blood, keeping his eyes on her face as she watched him with a smile. Her eyelid wings fluttered of their own accord and her hair shimmered with colour before settling on silver.

“How are you…?” He asked before she pressed herself against his straining dick and the words faded away.

She chuckled softly. “How am I doing magic without breaking the law?” She shook her hair again, letting it flare with red and gold, looking suddenly like her hair was aflame. Raven’s eyes locked onto his and he could have sworn he saw embers smouldering within them. “Funny thing about transfiguration magic, if you’re born with it it doesn’t tend to show up to the bigwigs at the Ministry.”

“What?” Sirius was confused. “You’re not…?” Another groan stifled his words.

“I’m a metamorphmagus, love,” she purred, spinning around on his lap until she could press her bottom into his crotch. She leaned forward, touching her ankle and slowly raised back up, stroking along her bare leg, head turned to watch him over her shoulder, fiery locks draped around her neck on one side. Sirius groaned again, clutching the chair so hard his knuckles went pale. “No wandwork required. Well,” she glanced down at where she was sitting, where his bulge pressed against her. “I suppose that’s not true.”

Sirius shuddered, his arousal burning in its confinement. “Fuck, Ara—” Raven turned her head and silenced him with a kiss, her tongue sliding into his mouth. Sirius felt a tightening behind his balls and as she squeezed her buttocks, he realised with a moan that he was coming in his trousers like a fucking teenager. He shuddered with a mixture of grateful release and a touch of shame. A rap on the door broke the kiss and she grinned, standing up.

“That’s time.” She stood and shook out her hair, sending it back to brown. “See you around Black.” She winked and headed for the door.

Sirius sat, shell shocked, going limp in the damp Muggle clothes, breathing hard. 


End file.
